


I'm here to give you all my love

by coffeestain



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4657605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeestain/pseuds/coffeestain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s in the air before he can stop it from passing his lips, hanging in the space between them before he can catch himself.</p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>Some 'your Bucky' fluffiness. That's all this is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm here to give you all my love

**Author's Note:**

> So, the Civil War trailer may have made me feel some things. This is the result. Titled from FOB's "Just One Yesterday."

“My Bucky,”

It’s in the air before he can stop it from passing his lips, hanging in the space between them before he can catch himself. He can feel Bucky grin against the skin of his jaw, slow and sweet. They’re sitting on the couch alone in the dead silent hours of the night, room lit up only by the moon and light from the passing cars dancing on the walls through the slitted blinds, legs tangled under the quilt, with Steve’s hands threading through Bucky’s hair - it started as a comforting gesture, after Bucky awoke, yet again, sweat-drenched and shaking, but now was just as much for himself as it was for Bucky - the smell of tea tree soap and fabric softener and _home_ on Bucky’s skin is as good a comfort for Steve as any. He can feel Bucky’s breath hot on his skin, trailing soft, molasses kisses from his neck, to his jaw, his cheekbones, his nose, until finally their foreheads rest together. He can see the laughter in Bucky’s eyes, and Steve will not miss the chance to kiss that playful smirk from his lips before he can say anything. Steve rests his hand gently on Bucky’s nape, tugging him closer, filling in the gaps between them; they are _whole_ as he curls his other arm around Bucky’s waist and feels the empty spaces fill up.  


“Mine,” he repeats with conviction now, practically growls it, and Bucky can make fun of him all he wants, can call him a sap, call his confessions sentimental and his kisses maudlin, but Bucky knows, he knows what it means, what it _really means_ , between them: Bucky does not belong to anyone; not anymore. Bucky is no one’s asset, no one’s property, no one’s soldier. Bucky is his own. He’d made that discovery after months of anxiety over the smallest decisions and absolute unbridled panic over large ones. Bucky is his own, however, he trusts Steve enough that when the first time Steve kissed him, he paused a hair’s breadth away from Bucky’s lips, silently asking, “Can I?” Bucky let out a slow, shaking breath and whispered “Yeah, Stevie, I’m _yours_.”  


They don’t belong to anyone but themselves, but it’s whispered convictions like this that affirm who they are to each other, who they were and who they always will be.  


“Yours,” Bucky agrees, whispered like a prayer. Steve’s eyebrows raise, only for a second - there is a certain boldness granted to them in this abstract hour of the night, some kind of unusual courage when they are drunk on kisses, drunk on one another’s presence. But Steve knows - he knows what it means; knows that those words are only meant for him. _I’m yours._  


“Your Bucky,” He meets Steve’s gaze through half-hooded lids, slow and sleepy and sweet, with that soft, melancholy grin and Steve’s heart casually melts.  


He can’t ever take all of Bucky’s pain away, not by a longshot, but he will happily kiss the sadness from his smile, whisper his love and promises over the scars on his skin until Bucky’s eyes are shining not with tears, but love, until nothing but softness occupies the whole of him. Steve kisses slow, gentle; kisses lazy and sweet on Bucky’s dry, barely-parted lips; he can feel Bucky’s smile on his own, and Steve is certain that he is in no need of heaven, can do without any promised land because this is it right here. Bucky pulls away slowly, and Steve would whine for the loss, but then there are metal fingers gently gripping his hair and the languid movement of Bucky’s lips on his neck. He sucks, nips at the spot gently, and doesn’t pull away until there’s proof of him being there. That’s when Bucky nuzzles himself into the crook of Steve’s shoulders and whispers, just barely - Steve would miss it if it weren’t so silent around them, so calm, so muted -

“My Stevie.”

It’s a prayer, a benediction. Bucky whispers with quiet determination, with ardor and resolve and kisses with the same intensity, and Steve holds him tighter, pulls him desperately, impossibly closer. Steve is his, has always been his, even back when they were punk kids in Brooklyn, even when they were too young to know what love was, it has always been _Steve and Bucky._ One entity, always together.

_Not without you._

Bucky looks up at Steve with searching eyes, brows knitting together with a hint of worry. At times he still harbours anxiety about small things - if he’s said the wrong thing, if he’s made Steve upset somehow, especially where HYDRA was involved - though Bucky didn’t much care for walking on eggshells, whereas Steve didn’t much like joking around about it.

In any case, Steve responds with a kiss, a little harder now, but just as tender, with all the same sweetness as before. As if by this one gesture he can melt all of Bucky’s stress away. And if the look on Bucky’s face when he pulls away is any indication, well. He’s done a pretty good job.

He stands up, the quilt falling from his waist as he stretches, and holds out a hand, tugging Bucky to his feet as well - Bucky tentatively places his hand in Steve’s, meta fingers threading through flesh. He leads Bucky down the dark, empty hallway to their bedroom, where sheets lay messily strewn, pillows scattered haphazardly across the bedspread, all forgotten, abandoned when Bucky had woken up screaming, trembling, thrashing. Steve quickly rearranges the bedsheets, fixing up the pillows up the way he knows Bucky likes, and sits down on the edge of the bed. Bucky grins, sleepy and peaceful, leaning down, meeting Steve’s lips. They wrap around each other again, easy as anything, like puzzle pieces fitting together. When they’re curled up under the blankets, chest to back with their legs tangled, they breathe together, heartbeats matching up, steady and slow and sure.

“Yours,” Steve says finally, sleep catching up with him. “Always yours.”

**  
**


End file.
